Whatever my worries about money, I’ll have to find another way. Delve into the savings we have left from my mum. Forget shutting it down, I need to monetise Cheshire Mama, grow it into a genuine business.
I feel a sharpness in my chest.
There is no coming back now.
Whatever this job meant to me, it can’t mean that any longer.
Ed nods; grimaces.
‘I’ll go and work in the other room,’ he says eventually, and scoops up his things.
I sit on the kitchen floor for an hour, too tired to move, or even to cry, willing him to come back. But he doesn’t, and I message the girls – Cora, Emma, Asha – instead, and tell them I had a hard day at work, so that the comfort comes in, the warmth, even if it’s the virtual kind when I am longing for hands and breath on my ear and a voice, gentle, to calm me.
I email a formal resignation to Flick and I weep as I do it, saying goodbye to a slice of my life.
Anon
Subjects in our group chat today: fussy eaters, childminders v nursery, is this too early to think about having another baby, anyone know a good waxer, am I too old for leather trousers, how can my child still not sleep, where’s the best place to order pizza from? I’ve accidentally double-dosed on Calpol HELP.
Subjects Scarlett wants to talk about: her bad day at work.
And there you have it. Scarlett, in a nutshell. Me, me, me.
8
Scarlett
9 May
It’s been a day since I ran out of the office for the second, more final, time. Felicity has messaged and called repeatedly since I sent my resignation. I don’t reply.
At home I function at the lowest level I can for Poppy, no Ronnie to help as it’s the weekend. Ed has gone to the gym, says he needs to burn off some rage. Me too, Ed. I guess I’ll load the dishwasher a bit more aggressively than normal, then?
I phone Ronnie. Tell her that my company have given me a little longer off; that we won’t need her childminding services after all.
‘Not a problem at all, Scarlett,’ she says, but sounds surprised. She’s the Beyoncé of childminders; no one cancels. ‘But you know I need notice normally so I will have to take a couple of weeks’ pay?’
‘Of course,’ I say, glad cheeks aren’t visible on phone calls, or for that matter pyjama bottoms with stains on them. ‘Sorry to mess you around.’
But also, this is the upside. No more leaving my girl. No more traumatised train journeys. No more pondering the effect on a child of not seeing their parents all day before the age of one.
I end the call and pick up Poppy, who squirms away from me as I try to cuddle her.
I should take her outside, I know. But I am fearful of leaving the house, wondering if every face I see has watched the video. So we are stuck here and the walls are shifting inwards.
I look down at Poppy, who is optimistically holding out a small ball that I barely have the energy to take from her.
‘In a few minutes, Pops,’ I say, and she crawls away as I lie back on the sofa.
A message pings in. Flick.
‘Please reconsider,’ it says.
Delete. I’ve never told her about overhearing her chat; never will.
At 3 p.m. Ed walks in, looking like I look: smaller, broken down, tortured.
‘Jared has seen the video,’ he says without a hello, as he walks into the kitchen. He slams his hand down next to the hob. ‘Jared has seen the video of you.’
Ed’s friend, the guy from the lift, who still works in my company. I didn’t even think.
This keeps finding new ways to torment.
I groan, vicious.
‘It was a horrible conversation, Scarlett,’ says Ed, ignoring the sound.
I nod. Yes. Horrible.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and he says nothing back.
‘Are you ashamed of me?’ I ask quietly, as I’ve wanted to ask all week.
The tears are wide and chunky, saturating my face.
He winces. ‘Of course not,’ he says with a sigh.
Stock answer. What else would he say?
‘It’s not your fault, is it?’ he says but it’s like he’s reading from a script, approved for use in a #metoo generation. ‘You’re allowed to have a sexual past.’
He stumbles over the words. Ed’s family don’t discuss things so uncouth as sex. Ed is repressed, but he tries.
‘You’re allowed,’ he says, head lowered. ‘To have made mistakes.’
My own face snaps upwards.
Because was it a mistake? Or just a part of a full, messy life?
‘It happened because of what Ollie and I went through, Ed,’ I say.
He knows that Ollie and I lost a baby when I was seven months pregnant.
‘Do I need to transfer money for the lawyer?’ he replies.
I stare at him. ‘Did you hear what I said?’
He nods and reddens. Takes his laptop out of his bag and opens it.
I probably wouldn’t have told him, to be honest, but while a man you sleep with once after untold amounts of vodka might not notice your C-section scar, your husband does. I told him weeks after we met, tears rolling down my young un-made-up face, as we lay hungover in bed and he asked about my scar, finger near its edge. And of course, when you come to have a baby together, you tell midwives and doctors about it in front of him too. Yes, I have been pregnant before. No, it wasn’t a successful pregnancy.
Ed looks up.
‘I know it sounds crazy,’ I say, trying to explain. ‘But I didn’t want to be this victim who had lost her baby, who everyone pitied. I wanted to be back to the me from before. The party girl who liked adventures. But more extreme, more wild, more crazy. That’s how we ended up doing it. It was my idea.’
I blush. Because Ed knows I used to like three-day festivals
